This Is What Love Looks Like

In the Triduum, we discover what Love truly looks like.

Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14

Psalm 116:1, 10-17

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

©2026 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on Maundy Thursday at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the message may be found by clicking HERE. 

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your

words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

Earlier this week—Palm Sunday evening, actually—I was helping get my kids ready for bed.

Bath time, pajamas, the usual rhythm.

And Teddy said something simple.

He said, “My feet are dry… and they hurt.”

So I grabbed some lotion, sat down, and started taking care of his feet while Kim read a story from Lucy’s storybook Bible. 

In the middle of this moment, I realized, “Oh, this is a lot like Maundy Thursday.”

But, let me be clear—I was not doing the same thing that Jesus does for us tonight.

Jesus is washing feet that have walked through dirty streets… 

streets filled with grim and dust… 

and these feet would be inches away from your face as you reclined at table to eat.

It was not a sweet moment.
It was a humbling one.

Still somewhere in the middle of rubbing lotion into my son’s feet, I slowed down.

And I realized—I wasn’t just helping him.

I was loving him.

Not efficiently.
Not abstractly.
Not from a distance.

But right there.
On his level.

In a way that cost me something—time, attention, presence, and money (for the lotion).

And that’s when something deeper hit me.

I may not be doing exactly what Jesus did, but this…

This is the direction Jesus is pointing us tonight.

Because on this night, Jesus does something extraordinary.

He kneels.

The Teacher.
The Lord.
The one who—just days before—was welcomed like a king…

The one through whom all things were made…

The Light of the World…

The Way, the Truth, and the Life…

John tells us 

The Resurrection and the Life kneels.

And he washes their feet.

Even Peter’s.
Even Judas’s.

And then he says something that should stop us in our tracks.

He doesn’t say on this night, “Love your neighbor as yourself”—as beautiful and important as that is.

But: “Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.”

That is a different standard.

That is not: love in proportion to your own comfort.
That is not: love as long as it feels mutual.
That is not: love in a way that preserves your status.

Instead it is: love like this.

Love that kneels.
Love that serves.
Love that moves toward the lowest place.

This is what love looks like—not just any love—agape love, self-giving love, self-emptying love, even.

And if we’re honest, this is the kind of love that does not get rewarded nearly enough in our day and age.

Because it doesn’t climb ladders.
It doesn’t build platforms.
It doesn’t impress crowds.

But it does something far more important.

It makes Christ visible.

Because when we love like this—quietly, humbly, concretely—
we are not putting a spotlight on ourselves.

We are reflecting the light of Christ.

A warm glow.
Not a blinding glare.

A presence that says:
“You are not alone.”
“God is with you—even here.”

And beyond here…
Even in the garden when we cannot stay awake.

Even in the moment of betrayal when we cannot stay faithful.

Even in the courtyard when we cannot stay truthful. 

So, maybe this is the invitation tonight.

Not just to admire what Jesus did.

But to receive it… and then to become it.

To love our families like this.

Washing their feet or putting lotion on them, at least…
Yes.

But also the ones we overlook.
The ones we avoid.
The ones who don’t make it easy.

Even the ones who might betray us.

Because Judas is still at the table tonight.

And Jesus still kneels.

Which means this:

There is no one beyond the reach of this love.

So as we wash and are washed…

as we offer our selves, our souls and bodies at this table…
as we are fed by Christ’s life given for us…

may we be changed.

Not into people who simply believe the right things.

But into people who live this love.

Kneeling.
Serving.
Giving.

This is what love looks like.

Amen.

Shrewd Wisdom

The Parable of the Dishonest Manager is the most confusing tale, until it's not...

Jeremiah 8:18-9:1
Psalm 79:1-9
1 Timothy 2:1-7
Luke 16:1-13

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen. 

 

Today’s Gospel is confusing. Some Church scholars call it the most perplexing parable Jesus ever told. The story of a dishonest manager leaves us scratching our heads—why on earth does Jesus seem to praise someone who’s been caught cheating his boss? 

 

But maybe the parable isn’t about dishonesty at all. Maybe, if we approach this not as a morality tale but as a spiritual invitation, we will discover this is a parable about urgency, risk, and who we choose to serve. Still don’t get what I’m saying, just keep listening.

 

Listen again to the details of the story. A wealthy landowner discovers that his steward—his business manager—has been wasting his resources. The man is about to be fired. He panics: “I’m not strong enough to dig, I’m too proud to beg. What am I going to do?”

 

So he comes up with a plan. He goes to the landowner’s debtors and reduces what they owe—slashing one man’s bill from a hundred jugs of oil to fifty, another’s from a hundred measures of wheat to eighty.

 

At first glance, it looks like more dishonesty. Surreptitiously cutting what’s owed his master, but here’s the interpretive key: most likely, the steward is cutting out his own commission, the markup he would normally keep for himself. He sacrifices his portion in order to win favor with others.

 

It’s a bold, risky move. He gives up money he could have held onto, but in doing so he secures relationships, reputation, and maybe even a future home when he’s unemployed.

 

And surprisingly, the landowner commends him. Not for being dishonest, but for being shrewd—for being clever enough to see that in a world ruled by money, it’s people and relationships that actually matter.

 

And then, Jesus turns to us. He has a word that is as clear now as it was 20 centuries ago! “No slave can serve two masters… You cannot serve God and Mammon.” That’s the heart of the passage. That’s the bottom line. You can only serve one.

 

Now, what is Mammon?

 

When Jesus says, “You cannot serve God and Mammon,” he’s not just using a generic word for money.

• Mammon comes from an Aramaic word (mamona), which meant wealth, riches, or property. Luke and Matthew, both preserve it into their Gospel accounts, as though the word carried more weight than just “money.”
• Over time, Mammon became personified. In Jewish and early Christian thought, it wasn’t just wealth—it was the false god of greed and possessions.
• By the Middle Ages, Mammon was imagined as a demon of avarice, showing up in literature like Paradise Lost by John Milton.

 

So, jumping back to our Gospel lesson, when Jesus says, “You cannot serve God and Mammon,” he’s pointing to something bigger than coins or bills. He’s naming money’s spiritual power. He’s exposing the way wealth can demand allegiance, whispering promises of security, identity, and control.

 

Mammon is money treated as ultimate.
Mammon is wealth turned into a master.
Mammon is what happens when money shifts from being a tool to being a god.

 

And here’s the thing: Mammon doesn’t have to make us villains. It’s allure is more subtle. Mammon just has to distract us. It simply has to keep us clinging tight, trusting more in what we have than in the God who provides. That’s why Jesus is so stark: you cannot serve both.

 

That’s not easy to hear, especially in our world. We live in a culture obsessed with wealth. It’s not enough just having enough, our society’s message is that you always need more—more savings, more investments, more possessions, more security.

 

And often, that accumulation doesn’t look like it comes at the expense of others. We do not see the hidden costs of cheap goods or unfair labor practices, we just see the package arrive in two days or less. I said we do not see this because I am guilty of this too. But the stark truth is, the way money flows in this world has consequences. Every purchase, every investment, every choice is connected.

 

Jesus reminds us: you cannot serve two masters. You can’t serve God and Mammon. You will love one and despise the other, cling to one and reject the other.

 

What do we do, then, as followers of Jesus in a world like ours?

 

I think we do exactly what the steward in the parable did—we take on some risk, and we choose to use money not as an end in itself but as a tool for something greater. We use money to serve God. We use money to serve our neighbors. We use money to create fountains of goodness in a world parched for grace.

 

The Church has language for this. We call it stewardship.

• First fruits giving—offering to God not what’s left over, but the very first portion of our income. It’s a way of saying, “God comes first. God is my master, not Mammon.” This doesn’t have to be to the Church—although we will use everything we can to build up this outpost of Christ’s Reign here in Hoover. Still, you can give to God’s work in this world through charities, institutions, nonprofits, or other organizations that are focused on revealing God’s grace here and now. Another aspect of Stewardship is…
• Proportional giving—deciding a percentage of our income to give, so that our generosity grows with our blessings. It’s not about guilt; it’s about rhythm, discipline, intentionality. This way of giving leads us into the truth that the more we give the more we get and the more we get the more we give. A final important attribute of Stewardship is…
• Sacrificial giving—choosing to give in a way that actually costs us something, that stretches us. Like the steward, we may cut into what would have been ours in order to make space for someone else to thrive. On the surface, this is so counter-cultural it might feel impossible. However, there are countless examples of spiritually and yes financially prosperous people who sacrifice for a time so that they can reap the reward in return. 

 

None of this is about fundraising for the Church. It’s about discipleship. So while this is about money, it’s about much more than that. It’s about how we invest our lives. It’s about choosing whom we serve. It’s about refusing to let money be our master and choosing instead to let God’s love shape how we use every resource entrusted to us.

 

There’s a saying that I shared not too many weeks ago, but it bears repeating: Love people and use things. Not the other way around.

Too often, we get that reversed. We use people and love things. We measure success by what we own, what we drive, what we bank, what we achieve—while neglecting the very relationships that bring life.

 

The steward in Jesus’ story, flawed as he was, realized that things couldn’t save him, but people could. God’s love in the hospitality of others could. The steward risked his own share of the profit to secure community. And Jesus says, in a way:

That’s the kind of cleverness my disciples need.

 

Be wise. Be shrewd. Don’t let Mammon own you. Use money to bless. Use money to reconcile. Use money to serve God’s kingdom.

 

So, what does that look like in practice? What is it to take Jesus seriously here? Maybe it starts by examining our lives and asking: Am I serving God or Mammon? Some other questions might sound like:

• When I choose to spend money, time, or other resources, is generosity part of the decision?
• When I look at my budget, does it reflect my faith, my values, and my trust in God?
• When I think about my wealth, do I see it as mine, or as God’s gift entrusted to me for the sake of others?

 

Maybe this way of following Jesus requires us taking a risk—like the steward—by giving away more than feels comfortable, trusting that God provides. Maybe it means simplifying, so that what we save on ourselves can flow into someone else’s life.

 

And maybe this way looks like remembering that stewardship isn’t just about money—it’s about our whole selves, our time, our talents, our hearts. It’s about asking daily: Whom do I serve?

 

The good news is this: when we choose to serve God, we’re not left empty-handed. We’re not abandoned to risk without promise. We are caught up into the abundance of God’s kingdom.

 

In that kingdom, generosity multiplies. In that kingdom, giving leads to receiving. In that kingdom, we discover that the very things we thought we were giving up become the channels through which God pours joy and life back into us.

 

The steward risked his commission to gain relationships. We risk serving God over Mammon—and we gain dwelling eternally with God, spiritual treasures in heaven, and lives filled with meaning and purpose here and now.

 

So, let’s be wise. Let’s be shrewd. Let’s be disciples who know that money is never neutral, but that it can be holy when placed in God’s hands.

 

Let’s serve God—not Mammon. Let’s use money to love neighbors, to heal wounds, to lift burdens, to shine Christ’s light.

 

Because in the end, it’s not money that saves us. It’s Christ. Christ, who gave everything—sacrificially, proportionally, first and last—to bring us home to God.

Amen.

 

Bonus Good News: A Feast for the Heart

Today's Gospel lesson comes after the original ending of John, so what do we do with this bonus good news?

 

Acts 9:1-6, (7-20)

Revelation 5:11-14

John 21:1-19

Psalm 30

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was preached at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL on the Third Sunday of Easter. A video of the message may be found here. 

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

 

At the end of last week’s Gospel lesson — right before today’s story — we heard the following: “But these [things] are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” Boom! Resurrection, belief, and new life. End of story. Roll the credits.

 

Except… not quite. It’s like in an infomercial: But wait! There’s more!

 

Today we hear a bonus, post-Resurrection encounter — it almost feels like a surprise scene after the credits of a movie or a hidden track at the end of an album. In this Gospel lesson, John sneaks in one last story about the Risen Christ, it’s a secret epilogue of grace. As though, God is saying: You thought I was finished? I'm just getting started.

 

And what is in this bonus good news? What is it that God is just getting started?

 

It’s a beach breakfast, a miraculous catch of fish, a conversation about love and forgiveness, and—surprisingly—a challenge… to not just “believe,” but to live differently because you believe. 

 

Now y’all, I know that change is challenging. Even when that change comes from experiencing the Resurrection. For in the new light of Easter, we experience newfound freedom—knowing that death doesn’t have the last word—but, this new way of being is impossible. At least it is on our own. 

 

So, friends if you hold on to nothing more from these lessons, remember that if you are going to live “life in Christ,” you will need the risen Christ feeding you and transforming you. But, what does this sustaining presence look like? Well, let’s start by looking at a failed fishing expedition.

 

After everything—the empty tomb, the Easter appearances, and the imparting of the Holy Spirit (according to John)—what do the disciples do? Go on a mission to share the Good News? No! Serve the needy of Jerusalem? Nope! Pray unceasingly worshipping God? Nah! Instead, the disciples go fishing. 

 

It's an odd thing. After everything that happened, they just went back to what they were doing before. And, who could blame them? There is not empirical data measuring the stress levels of these 1^st Century disciples, but imagine the mental and emotional load that was upon them. The leader of their movement had been viciously killed and mysteriously raised. It would make sense to blow off some steam by doing something fulfilling and familiar. It’s what we do too, right? 

 

Perhaps we do this by going fishing, but it could also be when we’re golfing, hiking, running, cooking, traveling, or any other number of other productive ways to cope with stress. So, the disciples head to some well-known surroundings to recenter and recognize what had taken place, but…

 

They were terrible at it—at least the fishing. You would have thought none of them had fished before. How did they survive by doing this? Because they fished all night long and caught nothing. Not a single fish! 

 

Then, at dawn, just as the sun rose (or was it the S-o-n that rose?), a stranger on the shore shouted: “Children, you have no fish, have you?” (Ouch! Who is this mean heckler on the shore?)

“No,” they sighed in reply.

“Cast the net on the right side,” he offered. It is not in any translation, I’ve ever read, but I imagine the disciples rolling their lives and retorting: “Don’t you think we tried that!” But, eventually, they did cast their nets on the other side. And, bam! They hauled in 153 fish. More than they could haul into the boat.

 

It’s in this moment of abundance that the proverbial scales fell from their eyes. John recognized: “It is the Lord!” Simon Peter, never one for half-measures, went all-in, throwing on his clothes and diving into the sea. (Only Peter would get dressed before swimming… I mean, was he worried about Jesus seeing him shirt-less?)

 

When the disciples reached shore, what did they find? Jesus. Already there. Already preparing a meal for them. Already sustaining them! Before he sent them out to feed others, he fed them first. But, we do not live by bread (or fish) alone. For then, came the deeper work of spiritual sustenance.

 

After breakfast, Jesus turned to Peter—remember he was the one who had denied Jesus three times—and in a series of questions that were as tender as they were cutting, Jesus asked Peter three times: “Do you love me?”

Each time Peter said yes, and each time Jesus responded not with “That's nice” or “I love you, too,” but with a commission: “Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep.” 

 

In this moment, we see more clearly that love to Jesus is not just a warm feeling. Instead, it is a choice, an action. And, in the three-fold affirmation of Peter’s love for Christ, we also discover that God’s love is about restoration. The denials of Good Friday morning are undone here at this brunch on the beach. And though we know that Peter still didn’t get it all right, his later mission and martyrdom exemplify a life turned toward the service of others. And here’s where this bonus scene of Good News challenges us. Jesus’ unbinding Peter and his denials is inextricably linked with a transformation—a difference in being and behavior.

 

The priest and author Barbara Brown Taylor once told a story about a seminary classmate from Lebanon who was curious why his classmates did not want this for themselves. He grew frustrated with the other students, saying: “All you Americans care about is justification! You love sinning and being forgiven, sinning and being forgiven. Has anyone ever heard of sanctification? Is anyone interested in learning to sin a little less?” These are hard questions, but appropriate ones. Don’t we want to be transformed? Don’t we want to live in integrity when it comes to the relationships of our lives?

 

The truth is the Risen Christ forgives us endlessly, like we saw in Christ Jesus’ repeated forgiveness of Peter. However, Christ also calls us beyond the hamster wheel of sinning and being forgiven. Christ calls us to be transformed. How do we know this? Well, look no further than our lesson from the Acts of the Apostles this morning. 

 

Saul, the bloodthirsty persecutor, became Paul the Apostle. The adamant victimizer who held the cloaks of those who martyred Saint Stephen, became the evangelist who helped spread the Christian message to the Gentiles. Or, look again at Peter, the denier, who became the rock on which Christ built the Church. 

 

Both were fed by the grace of God, but neither stayed the same. Their lives became acts of penance in the best sense — not as punishment, but as repair. They did not change because they feared God’s wrath (although I think Saul’s blindness certainly put the awe of God in him), instead they changed knowing the freedom of serving in Christ’s ministry. Their faith was not just a listless “I’m sorry.” It was a moving, new way of living: loving, feeding, tending, and serving.

 

This is what sanctification looks like. This is Life in Christ. This is Resurrection! So, what about us? Do we want this?

 

You may feel tired. Maybe your nets have been empty. Perhaps even returning to old sources of sustenance isn’t as fruitful. Maybe you’ve been stuck on that hamster wheel or out in lifeless waters. Perhaps you cannot break the old sinful ways. If any of this sounds like you, look to the shore. See the Risen Christ. He’s already readying a meal for you and for all. Let him feed you. Let him love you first. Yes, here at Christ’s Table, but also in prayer, in the study of scripture, in giving to others, in being loved on by this community, or countless other ways that God is yearning to meet you.

 

And then—because you are loved beyond measure, because no matter what you have done you have been forgiven—get up. Feed his lambs. Tend his sheep. And, love his flock (all his flock). Because the bonus good news isn’t just that Christ is risen. The bonus good news is that you are rising too. Amen.

Ugly Boxes of Resurrection

The Resurrection doesn't wait to we're all pretty!

Acts 10:34-43 

Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

1 Corinthians 15:19-26 

John 20:1-18

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was preached during the Feast of the Resurrection on Easter morning at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the sermon may be found here. 

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. 

 

Alleluia, Christ is risen! The Lord is risen, indeed! Alleluia!

 

The unfinished 1x10 and 2x8 boards were an eyesore. Sitting out on the church lawn, they began to catch the eyes of parishioners and passersby alike. “What are those?” one member asked as we began a Vestry meeting. “They look like coffins! Are they for a funeral?” another laughed as she chimed in the conversation. They weren’t coffins, but I could see the confusion, and even though the mission of the wood was noble, I agreed that they weren’t pretty. That wasn’t their purpose. 

 

What were they? Why was there wood on the church lawn? O, I’ll get there, but first… Easter dad jokes!

 

What do you call a rabbit with fleas? Bugs Bunny!

Why did the Easter egg hide? Because it was a little chicken!

Why doesn’t Jesus wear a necklace? Because he breaks every chain! 

 

I tell these terrible jokes on Easter morning because the Resurrection is the greatest prank of all time. Better than Ashton Kutcher on Punk’d or the Impractical Jokers, Jesus bamboozled sin and Satan, death and even his disciples on that blessed morn’ long ago. So, it’s fitting—if a bit painful—to endure some jokes today. 

 

What wasn’t so funny was what was happening at the first church I ever served St. John’s Episcopal Church in Decatur. The congregation had soured over a new initiative that required some coffin-looking things to be constructed in our church yard. Why would a church that prides itself on decorum within a denomination that prides itself on decorum put some ugly boxes out on the lawn? Well, one part of the answer is the correct response to most Sunday School teachers’ inquiries: Jesus! 

 

We put those boxes outside because Jesus told us to. But, more specifically they were there so that something new could grow. You see, at St. John’s Decatur, much like here at Holy Apostles, Hoover, we wanted to be good neighbors. And, instead of telling our neighbors how we were going to love them, we asked them what they needed. Well, we did that after we had almost tarnished the relationships by telling them what they needed to do. Eventually though, they let us know their dreams and we let them know our capacities and together we began to vision. 

 

Specifically, these conversations happened with our neighbors at Banks-Caddell Elementary School. At that time, they had the worst standardized test scores of all the elementary programs in the city. Most of their students came from the literal other side of the railroad tracks in a heavily segregated city. Many were behind grade levels in math and reading. Few had any help at home. The outlook for many of these students was bleak at best. Plus, they didn’t much like our faith community calling us the scary church across the street—things were not looking so great. 

 

However, at the suggestion of St. John’s then Rector, the Rev. Evan Garner, some members of the congregation went to meet with the principal of Banks-Caddell. 

 

They asked what our church could do to help. The head of the school jumped at the offering and wondered, “Do you have any space for a garden? We have a gardening club at the school, but nowhere with enough sunlight to plant a community garden.” 

 

Did we have space? Yes, we had space—in the form of a big ol’ sunny church yard. So, at a workday, we put together four big, raised garden beds. Now these were not the prettiest structures ever crafted, I mean they looked like roughly hewn caskets, but didn’t that just add to the power of what was happening here?

 

Amazing things happen inside a garden. Just ask Mary Magdalene.

 

Y’all in today’s Gospel lesson, she thought she was talking to the gardener. Which is… hilarious, and also maybe the most fitting and theologically accurate case of mistaken identity in all of Holy Scripture. Because of course, Jesus was the gardener.

 

There, in the early morning light, beside an empty tomb, with tears still fresh on her cheeks—Mary met the One who still tends to our grief and breaks the soil of sorrow with new life. She met the Great Gardener of the Entire Cosmos!

 

Think about how crazy this was: she went looking for a body. And instead, she heard her name,“Mary!” That’s when she knew that this wasn’t the end—it was merely the beginning.

And, to think the whole Christian story—our story—started in another garden: Eden. Cast your mind back to that Sunday School chestnut: After Adam, Eve, and the serpent started the blame game, which sadly continues to this day, we lost our immediate connection with Our Creator. The Fall, as we call it, was not only something that happened once long ago, but is also something we all endure through the pains of this human life. Don’t follow? Stick with me for a moment.

 

What I mean is that the woundings we undergo thrust us out of the proverbial garden that is our original essence. Even though we always bear the very good image of God, when we experience difficult wounds, especially in childhood, we find ourselves eating the fruit—opening our eyes to see the brokenness of this world. We begin to define life via the lens of good and evil, and we are thrust from Eden. Outside the garden, life is toilsome and broken. So, to deal with the pain, we cultivate egos to protect us from hurt. However, these egoic vessels guard us from more than injury, they also keep us from our true selves. 

 

But, just like with Mary Magdalene, this isn’t the end—it’s the beginning.

 

For our true nature gets reclaimed here in another garden. Where something that looked like death—a tomb, a place of isolation, an ego-centric worldview—becomes the compost of creation. These, let’s just call them “manure situations,” surprisingly have a way of hastening our maturation—as St. Paul put it, “suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope.” The hard-won progress of moving from suffering to endurance to character to hope also reveals our truest selves. Of course, this path runs counter to the comfort and convenience our culture values so highly. 

 

As much as our society loves the fanfare of an initial public offering or the party of a rebranding effort, it’s funny to think about the Resurrection, which began not with public triumph, but with intimate tenderness.

And, as much as our world (and even the Episcopal Church) loves to understand the reasoning behind why something is the way it is, the Resurrection begins not with understanding, but with presence.

And, as much as our denomination loves pomp and circumstance, the Resurrection begins not in a cathedral, but in a garden.

 

In other words, the Resurrection starts in all the unexpected places—where grief still lingers, where wounds still fester, where the future seems volatile, and life itself looks more like a coffin than a cradle. 

 

That’s where God meets us—calling us each by name. God bids us step away from who we pretend to be to make it through the day, instead we are called to live as our true selves, even when the wounds still haven’t healed, or life looks more like a nightmare than God’s dream. 

 

In a church yard, a classroom, a hospital bed, a broken heart, or a garden bed that looks like a tomb—that’s where God will find us. Wherever, you are today—that’s where God is finding you. Not to shame you. Not to lecture you. But to call you. To whisper, “Follow me into resurrection.” To say, “You thought this was the end… but it’s not. It’s merely the beginning. You thought this was a coffin, but it’s soil.”

 

And speaking of soil, the ground on which we started the community garden at St. John’s is still bearing fruit. Our relationship with Banks-Caddell grew so much over the five-years I was there that it was hard to imagine the church or its yard any other way. What’s more, the students at that elementary school improved their test scores two whole grade levels thanks to a tutoring program we initiated. St. John’s also started providing scholarships to any Fifth Grader who could not afford to attend a class trip to Camp McDowell’s Environmental Center. The students even stopped calling St. John’s the scary church across the street. Instead they called us their friends. As much as any of us would like to take credit for all that happened, it was Our Good Gardener’s doing.

 

So, friends, let this Easter morning remind you that the Risen Christ is still gardening…

Still cultivating hope…
Still turning tombs into nurseries…
Still calling us by name in the most unlikely places…

The wood may look rough,
The ground may seem hard,
But you never know what might grow there until you try.

 

With Our Good Gardener know: this isn’t the end—it’s merely the beginning. 

 

Alleluia. Christ is risen.

 

Amen.